How to save Sherlock Holmes
by Esta
Summary: SPOILER alert: HIS LAST VOW! The aftermath of the shooting and Sherlock's arrest leaves everyone devastated and without a clue what to do. Everyone but Mary. Can be read as a sequel to "Brothers".
1. Chapter 1

**How to safe Sherlock Holmes**

Summary: SPOILER alert: HIS LAST VOW! The aftermath of the shooting and Sherlock's arrest leaves everyone devastated and without a clue what to do. Everyone but Mary. Can be read as a sequel to "Brothers".

Xxxx

It was the day after the shooting and everything had fallen quiet. Too quiet for Mary's liking, it was the quietness of a grave she had far too often encountered in her life. Every time she had shot a man, a woman, once even a child – a mistake she still did regret – the quiet afterwards for her had been the worst part. When the adrenaline rush stopped and the deed was done all that was left was the darkness that slowly consumes the soul of a killer – if he or she still possesses one. Mary had never been completely able to deny her heart, to shut out every feeling. Not like Mycroft. Not like so many of her colleagues at the CIA. That is why she had left. All of a sudden one day it had simply become too much. As every good agent she had prepared for the case she had to go undercover, to hide from snipers, killers, her own people. Like every good agent she had made a run without telling anyone. Officially she was dead and even the name she now wore like an honorary medal was that of a dead girl.

It was the day after the shooting and the quiet was getting under her skin. Even John's soft kiss in the morning, the first signs of forgiveness, did nothing to take away the pain. Even the movements of her child could not stop the guilt slowly creeping deeper and deeper into her heart. Her fault. Everything had been her fault. First she had shot Sherlock instead of trusting him. And now she had made him take these extreme measures. It was as if she had held the gun herself again. She had made Sherlock shoot a man. She was responsible for whatever would happen to him now. John had told her. John had told everyone. Everyone but Mycroft. The man who knew. The man who had seen too much.

Mycroft was gone now. After hours standing outside in the cold, not even tempted to come in after his mother had first begged than shouted at him, he had finally taken a helicopter into town. But the emptiness had never left his eyes. Something had been destroyed in a man that had always seemed too strong to be broken by anything at all.

He had promised to do anything he could. "Myc please don't let him go to prison. Please..." That was something he could not have promised: Too many witnesses, too prominent a figure.

The Holmes brothers both had become hollow creatures over night. It was something John had told her the evening before. John had not even been able to hold back tears, something absolutely untypical for him. He had not cried at Sherlock's funeral Mary was told, he had not cried when he found out his wife had shot his best friend, he had not cried when is best friend turned into a murderer to protect this treacherous wife. But he did that evening. "Something is destroyed in him," he said. "He told me to stand back. I think he expected them to shoot him and he accepted it. It was the price he was willing to pay to keep his vow... Mary... I think they would have killed him had it not been for his brother stopping them in track." Mary had kissed John's hand. So cold. "When they finally arrested him – and me, but don't mind that – I could finally look into his eyes. I expected rage, maybe regret or pain, even insanity. But there was nothing. Nothing at all. I think he has given up, Mary. He is dying, and this time properly."

They had not slept much that night. Sherlock's parents had argued, later cried and whispered comforting words to each other downstairs. Where Mycroft was, no one knew. John had tossed in his sleep as soon as he started to slumber only to wake up minutes later staring into the night. Even the child in her had been restless.

In the morning everything had become quiet. No sound. John and Sherlock's parents had gone for a walk and with Mycroft not back from London Mary had been left on her own. Too quiet. Too dark. And all her fault.

Suddenly a pale brown folder fell into her lap.

"Is this the thing he was trying to hide from me, from everyone?"

"Mycroft?"

She did not hear him enter the house. And now he was standing there in his immaculate suit, stiff like always but with unhidden rage in his eyes.

"Is this why my brother destroyed his own life, Mrs. Watson, or shall I better call you..."

"Don't. Please don't." She should have been frightened, but after all these ups and downs in only a few days there was no energy left in her to fight back or give in. She simply did no longer care. Her child would be safe with John. John had forgiven her. The rest was history. "I never asked him to..."

"No, why would you? You never needed to ask." Mycroft spit out the last part. "You and John Watson, you don't ask, you simply get. No matter what the cost for my brother. Did John know? Of course he did... oh..."

Mary was sure Mycroft would have killed her that instant would it not have been for the child inside her belly. He was no monster after all.

"You shot him. You! And I never even suspected... you three are far too good in hiding things. But no more... no more..."

Mycroft started pacing through the living room. He did not even look at her. And again there was this hollow look in his eyes, not the one he and his brother took when wandering through their minds, no, it was one of complete loss. He looked like a man no longer sure who he was.

"I can't protect him. Prison or death, there is one other alternative left for him: A mission to the East that will surely kill him or lifelong prison. But that will kill him in the long term as well. Using drugs or being killed while attempting to flee. God..." Mycroft suddenly stopped and buried his head in his hands. His head clearly did hurt from all that thinking, the lack of sleep and the mountain of despair growing with every passing hour. Outside they could hear people approaching.

"Then send him to the East, Mycroft. Send him and don't tell John why."

"What? Lying again, Mary Watson?" Like a predator he moved towards her but stopped in his track. "What," he whispered. "What don't I see?"

Mary moved forward in her chair so that her face was nearly brushing his. "Get him out of prison and I'll get him back to England – before it is too late."

"You can't do that."

She took hold of the folder and tossed it into the fire. "I am sure you read all the information about me you could dig out on such a short notice. I should have hidden things better. But now you know things and you also know that I can. I can get him back. And no one will ever know you and I have been involved." A smile spread over her face. For others it might have seemed sincere but it was not meant that way and Mycroft knew. He was only fooled once and he would not underestimate her a second time.

The door to the cottage was opening and Mary could hear John talking. "I will do anything for John," she said. "And for Sherlock, if it comes to that. They cannot exist without each other. You should know that. And if I say I can bring your brother back, I will. Promised."

"I can't and won't trust you." They were whispering now, so the approaching party would not hear them.

Mary laughed. "You are right: You can't trust me, but your brother can."

Mary could feel Mycroft measuring her before he took three steps back and set down on the sofa opposite her, playing the normality one would expect to encounter in a house like this would it not be in the ownership of a family named Holmes. "So," he said. "What now?"

"Now?" Mary smiled and a wicked gleam was in her eyes. Oh, she had a plan. And what a plan. Sherlock would like this so much. John wouldn't but his opinion did not count at the moment. He would never approve but John would thank them none the less as soon as he had his Sherlock back. "Now," she said, "it is time to bring back an old enemy."


	2. Chapter 2

I am in the mood to write and after your kind remarks I think this will be getting a bit longer. I love Mycroft. And Mary… oh Mary… Prepare yourself for the hunt on Moriarty. And people dying. Or not?

**Chapter 2: Traces**

_Three months later_

Mycroft Holmes sat on his chair, hands neatly folded on the top of his desk, a statue of calmness and control. He could fool anyone with that pose, anyone but himself – and maybe his brother. Lady Smallwood never even cared to look at him properly. Perhaps she would have seen: The utter exhaustion in his eyes, the far too tight lips telling about his anxiety and the sweet pearls on his forehead spoke volumes of how tiring the last three months had been. Three months of covering tracks. Three months making sure no one knew, especially his little brother. Three months without proper sleep and attempts not to know what someone else was doing not really behind his back.

"So everything you tell me, Mycroft, is that neither you, nor your people, nor anyone else in the bloody damn business has a clue who is behind this complot, or whatever you might call it?"

"If you put it so: Yes." Mycroft could not even believe that his voice could sound so calm while lying to one of the most important people in the country: Lady Smallwood. Again. But who cared. They all came and went. She was not the queen. And Mycroft had more than once even lied to the prime minister.

She turned around, her eyes glaring. "This is not a joke."

"Oh lady Smallwood, please be assured: It is not. To be honest it is a security nightmare I would rather not encounter ever again." And that was not even a lie this time.

"So no trace of Moriarty or whoever is behind this. You and every intelligent officer had convinced me Moriarty was dead after the incident with your brother. And suddenly out of nowhere he is back. And at what a convenient time."

A line like a punch in his gut, well aimed and nearly hitting the core of a secret operation – Mycroft had to take a deep breath to stop himself from flinching. "What are you implying?"

"Don't play dumb on me, Mycroft." She was now leaning over his desk, very controlling for a woman who has nearly lost all control over her life because of her husband's stupid love affair – even if it was only in letters. "We both know: Whoever hides his traces that well has to be a genius. A genius like your brother who happened to be shipped off to a deadly operation and just at that exact moment Moriarty comes back. Tell me that this is just a lucky coincident."

"I don't know if it is lucky, but a coincident it is. You can't be implying my brother had something to do with this. He was in prison. And you got to know which state he was in. You have seen it." Mycroft seldom raised his voice but the mixture of fury and fear got the better of him.

Lady Smallwood lent back on her heals and smiled. "Maybe not him, but someone has made sure your brother could be staying in this country. Maybe not him, but someone close to him?"

Mycroft slowly rose from his chair. "If there is someone else behind this, someone other than Moriarty, I will make sure to catch him."

"Oh sure, you do." Lady Smallwood smiled again, well-mannered as she was raised but with a hint of annoyance. What did that woman think? That he would be so easily to break? Or was it simply a shot in the dark? He could take no risk.

"Would you please excuse me now, my lady? I have work to do and criminals to catch, as you so nicely laid out to me." He gestured towards the door, somewhat rude but he was beyond care. Mycroft felt nauseous. When was the last time he had eaten properly? Breakfast at five, after that two hours meeting at his office, than Downing Street, back to do some office work… How late was it? 4 pm. He should have taken a break. But there was simply no time.

"Mycroft?"

"Oh excuse me. Yes?"

"I said: Do we see each other in the meeting tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, yes, of course." How could he have missed that question?

"Oh and Mycroft: Please be sure that you can trust your own brother. It would be a shame if you would fall over another of his mistakes. This one would be really too grave."

He glared at her in his most intimidating manner but she did not even flinch. "I am sure. And now: Goodbye."

He opened the door and let her out of his office, Mycroft turned before she could make another remark. But then he held himself back and smiled at her again. "Oh and Lady Smallwood, before you start a manhunt on my brother, please consider who had taken him into this messy business with Magnussen. It was you, was it not?" She paled. "Or was it your husband." And with that he closed the door into her face.

"_You have to take it more lightly, Mycroft. I told you so. And now breathe. Deep in and out."_ Good god, why had his inner John Watson always have to come out at times like this. Mycroft stumbled. He never stumbled. And this sweat was not normal. He had to pause before he even reached his chair, holding onto his desk. This was beyond the typical nausea that has plagued him for days now. _"You should really look after your health." _God, John, shut up.

A fiery pain ripped through his chest and his left arm started to throb. Shit. Shit.

Mycroft slowly walked the last one and a half meter to his chair and slowly let himself glide down. Surely he could simply breathe it away. It had worked the other times. In and out. _"Mycroft don't be an idiot and call an ambulance."_ When had his voice of reason become that of John Watson?

The next wave of pain hit him with even more force. And now Mycroft was worried. No correction: Terrified. With shaking hands he pulled out his phone. Where was his assistant when he needed her? Right. Sent to kidnap his brother.

"Shee… Sherlock." Mycroft was shivering now and he felt himself gliding out of his chair. He had to tell his brother to stop his hunt for Moriarty. He had done so before. But now… god, if he was no longer able to cover every trace that Watson-woman left, she would be caught. Or not. Or. When had his mind stopped working properly? And why was he on the floor? And the phone? Why exactly was it in his hand?

"Oh brother dear, tell me again: When did you stop texting and started phoning me, again?"

That voice. Was it real? Another wave of pain hid him and this time he could not keep himself from groaning.

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock should better stop talking now, he sounded like a child. His voice had this tiny little hint of panic in it like those time he had messed with Mycroft's experiments and something had gone wrong – again.

"You seem to be in a hurry today, first sending your assistant to kidnap me and then phoning, too. Mycroft?"

"_Breathe. Don't stop breathing."_ Oh hi there, John again. So calm. His brother's voice on the line now had a more panicking sound.

Oh, and there was his old friend pain again. Hello. Missed me? Missed me? Missed me?

Where was that coming from?

"Mycroft tell me: Is it Moriarty? Mycroft? Shit, talk to me. We are nearly there. Whatever he is doing to you, I'll get you. Do you listen? Mycroft? Myc? Brother, please…"

The voice was slowly fading. Where had it come from, again?

He was slowly fading away. Sleep. Dear me, sleeping sounded so appealing. Remind me, when did I sleep the last time? Oh…

**To be continued**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Little brother**

The first thing he saw was blinding light. What a cliché. Could dying not be a bit less boring. But then there were flickering shadows and a voice. He knew it. Where from?

"Oh come on Mycroft, just open your eyes and don't be even more dramatic."

Ah yes, of course. Who else.

"You simply could have told me to piss off. No, you have to get a heart attack only not to answer my questions. And haven't I told you not to eat that much cake, you arteries must look like a fat paradise. No wonder your heart refused you after indulging in so many sweets. Heart attack, how boring can anyone get."

Heart attack? That was where the pain came from… oh, hello, again.

Mycroft blinked but the lights were far too bright, and his throat felt rough. How could he even attempt to speak when simply breathing did hurt?

"They had to intubate you, you had stopped breathing. But believe me it passes, speaking of lifelong experience." Sherlock chuckled, but there was a stain of sorrow in his voice. A hand was behind Mycroft's back, slowly pushing him upright and then this someone held a glass to his lips.

"You have to drink slowly, it will make it better." So cold, wet and good.

"Thank you," Mycroft whispered.

"Stop being so pathetic or I simply spill the water over you." Even the harsh words could not deny the softness in Sherlock's voice, the caring. His brother had a far too big heart, too big for his own good. "Wait."

Suddenly his little brother was gone, steps through the room and then the lights dimmed. Ah, how thoughtful: Closing the curtains. Mycroft had to smile. His mind seemed to get back on track. He dared to slowly open his eyes. Sherlock was back at his bedside, a sleep deprived face, tangled hair and the clothes in a mess.

"You look awful," Mycroft said.

"Says the man in the nightgown – with an open backside I might add."

Mycroft laughed in spite of the pain. "So we are back on old terms, then, brother dear."

"Don't brother-dear me, Mycroft. You know you have to answer some questions soon enough. Simply telling me not to hunt Moriarty despite telling me that he was the reason you are not sending me abroad – that does not work on me."

"Sherlock…"

"I know, you are ill." Sherlock put his hands in the air as if to surrender. "But not forever."

"Sherlock… don't look for him."

"You know this is far too tempting a riddle not to approach it: Moriarty is dead. I have seen him die. And don't tell me anyone could blow his head away and afterwards walk around London turning every screen in the country into a threat. It has to be his organisation since you are clearly not behind this…"

All this rants. Always talking. Too fast. Mycroft's head seemed to explode.

"Little one, please…"

Mycroft had not used these words for Sherlock in a very long time, not since… Yes, Redbeard's death. Driven over by a drunken truck driver. Sherlock had screamed at Mycroft afterwards. "I am not little, I am not… and you are mean and bad… and always away. Redbeard was my friend, my only friend… I hate you. I hate you all!" It had been neither his nor Sherlock's or their parent's fault but someone had forgotten to close the gate that day. And Sherlock had no one else to blame.

"You have got a headache. Feeling nauseous? Any pain in the chest? Shall I call a doctor?"

Sherlock's eyes were big with fear and for a few seconds he looked like the little unruly boy Mycroft so well remembered. He took his little brother's hand. It was so warm and soft. Or was his own so cold?

"For the love you might have ever felt for anyone close to you. Sherlock, I beg you. Stop. Stop it for your own sake. Leave Moriarty be."

"It was clearly not you. Can't be you. Far too risky… who else… who else…"

This absent minded look again, this furious eye movements. Wherever Sherlock believed to find the evidence in his mind palace, he clearly was on a trace.

And then his eyes went big. "Ohhhhhhhh."

Mycroft closed his eyes. How could he have ever thought they would fool his little brother.

"Ohhhhhhh." And then he started to laugh. "This is genius!"

The only thing missing was Sherlock dancing through the room. Everything else was there: The gleam, the smile, the spark, the life… Mycroft would have dared to smile would he not felt this sudden stab of fear. If Sherlock could figure it out, who else could? Mary.

All of the sudden Sherlock had become very quite, mustering his older brother. "You are tired. You worked. You covered for her, didn't you? You did this to yourself, you overworked, just for… for me?"

Mycroft closed his eyes. He did not do in sentiment. He wanted to say something, anything but just that exact moment a nurse came in. "Mr. Holmes, your brother needs rest. Would you please say goodbye and let him sleep a bit."

All Mycroft anticipated was a snide remark toward the nurse but she had shuffled away before his little brother had a chance to open the fire. Not their first encounter, then.

Mycroft opened his eyes again and suddenly Sherlock's face was very close. "I would say thank you, Mycroft," he whispered into his ear. "But since I had to reanimate you after your stupid stunt – and don't tell me you had to neglect yourself like this – I don't think I owe you anything."

Energetic as he was Sherlock nearly jumped from the bed, all the way to the door he seemed not to walk but to glide. "And by the way it was like kissing you. I mean kissing your brother is… but you... simply disgusting. I think you still owe me for that." Sherlock smiled, a wicked gleam in his eyes. And then he turned to leave.

"Why did you do it then? Why could you not have let me die instead?" Was there bitterness in his own voice? Mycroft knew Sherlock's words were not meant to hurt. He simply did not do sentiment, they were brothers after all and their conversation had bordered already too far on the emotional side.

The door handle already in his hand Sherlock stopped. And then too fast and too soft to really understand, he spoke the first kind words to his brother in years: "Because I would have missed you."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Let's go back in time for a while. Shall we? This happens right at the beginning before Mycroft has a chance to speak with Mary, if you are wondering. This one is a bit sentimental (again, how disgusting) but some action will follow soon. Promised.

**Chapter 4: To Loneliness I Follow You**

_Day One after the shooting_

It has been years ago that Mycroft Holmes out of a mood had watched "The Green Mile", the movie with a name taken from the long way prisoners sentenced to death had to walk between their cell and their last minutes in life. Mycroft had not enjoyed it. Far too sentimental. But now, walking down the corridor to the lonely cell at its end, he felt like one of these doomed men.

_Iceman._ Fuck the shit. While he pretended he was without feelings Mycroft clearly was not. And it was disgusting: Physical pain caused by emotion – whoever had invented that should be stoned to death.

He took a last deep breath before motioning the guard to open the door. Prepared for anything: Fury. Anger. Mocking. Even Tears. But not the loneliness that was seeping out of the darkened cell.

"Don't linger outside, Mycroft. What do you want?"

The words meant to be spoken in spite sounded hollow and empty, like a robot stripped of his former humanity.

"Brother dear." Mycroft stepped into the cell, whishing for his umbrella to steady himself. But he had to leave that at the door. Even he was not allowed to carry a potential weapon into a prison.

Sherlock was dressed like he had been the evening before, only shoes, coat and belt were missing. His face was far too pale and the way he hugged his own body spoke of the exhaustion and devastation his brother was feeling. Unlike Mycroft Sherlock had never been able to hide his feelings. He was like an open book for those who knew him even though he could fool anyone else.

"If you have come to scold me: Spare yourself. I don't want to hear it."

Mycroft sat next to his brother. The cell was empty, only a hard bed was in it and a hole in the floor to be used as urinal. Nothing was there for a prisoner to harm himself. Good. That was one thing he had never trusted his brother with, Sherlock had a tendency to be a danger to himself. The drugs had only been one way to destroy the younger man. Now Sherlock had proven his tendency of self-harm again – and this time properly. Mycroft felt his brother's eyes on him, dark orbs above hollow cheeks, blue circles were under Sherlock's eyes and every spark had left them.

"You ask yourself why I did what I did. One thing you can't deduce about me, never could: I am a killer." Sherlock laughed but again sounded hollow.

"No, you are not."

"I have shot a man."

"You regret it now."

Again Sherlock laughed. This time he sounded more sincere. "No Mycroft. There might be many things I regret, but this is not one of them. I did what I did intentionally. I chose to do it. I decided and I knew the consequences."

"Did you, now?" Mycroft felt a knot in his throat and he had to swallow hard. How he longed to cry. But he could not allow himself any weakness. The brain mattered more than the heart, his brain he had to use not his feelings for his stupid little...

"Don't deny me the right to say the truth Mycroft. You know I chose it. I had to protect them: My friends and even you. Magnussen would have used everything he knew to destroy us, everyone bit by bit."

"Whom? He would have destroyed whom exactly?" Mycroft tried to find his inner strength again, needed to focus. The brain mattered, only the brain.

"It does no longer matter, brother mine. I knew the price, now I am willing to pay. What is your decision? Prison or the MI6 mission?" Did Sherlock sound frightened or was it just his own fear Mycroft heard in his brother's voice?

"It is no longer my decision. I can do nothing..." And suddenly Mycroft's eyes burned. Shit. The cell seemed darker than it already was. Mycroft tried to concentrate on the pale dust reflecting in the light of one single lamp far above the door.

"We better say farewell then." Sherlock stood up, bringing himself into a pose of clear dismissal. A forced smile was on his lips. "Even if 'fare _well_' might be the wrong term in my case. Don't look like that. I know I'm going to die. I never expected to leave Magnussen's house alive. Not after I pulled the gun and... It... It is alright now. Everyone is safe. It is fine. I am fine."

"Sherlock..."

With forced strides Sherlock walked to the door and started banging against it until the guard opened the heavy steel trapping them inside. "My brother intends to go!"

"Mister Holmes?" The guard looked insecurely from one brother to another.

"All right... all right..." Mycroft knew when he was defeated by his brother. "If you would have only let me help..."

"Just go."

His feet felt heavy as he walked towards the door, away from his brother not sure if he would ever be able to speak to him alone again. His position was in danger and so was every possibility he had ever had to safe his brother. And Mycroft felt like marionette entangled in his own strings. There was no longer a way to deny it. Stupid. Stupid. And always because of Sherlock.

"Oh and Mycroft: Please tell mummy I try to phone more often from now on."

Mycroft nodded, it was the closest Sherlock would ever get to tell their parents how much he loved them. And somehow this was even sadder than the facts themselves: Sherlock was a cold blooded murderer and he would die because of that. His brother would die fighting on a mission or using drugs, it was easy to get them in prison even high security ones. And was there really a difference between these two when you have failed the only person that had ever mattered? Mycroft had to steady his strides.

It was time for the meeting and Mycroft dreaded every second that would pass till then. Death or death? He would try to buy some more time, to investigate, to speak with the Watsons, with his parents. But in the end he would have to decide. Death or death? Mycroft would have to speak the sentence over his brother. Or fall himself. What kind of choice was that?


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: A Friend Left Behind**

_Still Day One after the shooting_

Only the lonely ones are lucky in death, all the others leave someone behind, someone damaged by grieve, someone once loved and now alone. All of us have to face it: Those going into darkness, embracing death have the lighter fate than those whose have to cope with loss, fear and loneliness. John had felt that once: The earth shattering desperation that follows once most beloved's death. And now sitting at the window of Sherlock's childhood room he felt it again, the darkness creeping in, like a poltergeist slowly taking possession of his damaged soul, laying a shadow over every bit of happiness in his life. It should not feel like this. His life. He and Mary were on good terms again, a child on the way, the threat banned and his best friend alive and well... no, actually not well.

"Oh Sherlock." John's whisper drew Mary closer.

"You could have done nothing to prevent that, John."

"I know. I could not foresee this. I think even he did not see that coming. That's what Magnussen said: Sherlock had made a terrible mistake... Mary..." The last word was spoken longer and his desperation was seeping through every syllable. Mary did let him speak, a hand on his shoulder.

"Do you know how it feels to be shot?" His voice had a coldness he had not heard since his speech of forgiveness.

"No."

"First there is nothing, it happens so sudden that your brain needs some time to comprehend, the few seconds it takes for you to fall down. Then there is the shock. It is in every pore of your body, it can kill you, you know. And afterwards all that is left is the pain. It's worth than anything, burning, shredding, trashing. I was shot in the shoulder. That was bad. But Sherlock? Your shot had scratched the lung. I can only imagine how it feels suddenly not being able to breathe..."

Mary's hand was shaking slightly. "John, I said I was sorry..."

"It's not about you, Mary. It's about him. Being shot is a terrible experience; it leaves traces of fear in you. No matter how brave one pretends to be. You will fear to be shot again. None the less Sherlock shot Magnussen. He shot... Every man – even without a genius brain – knows in what shooting a man normally results when you are surrounded by special ops."

It was the first time John looked up and looked Mary's in the face. His eyes were dark hollows, a mirror of the despair that threatened to devour his soul. "I never saw his face but I think... I think he was not only prepared to kill, but to die. And this time for real. For you. For us."

"Oh John." Mary took John in her arms, a warm embrace to push away the darkness and the cold. She stroke his hair and kissed his head. John took in her familiar smell – and something new. Mary had changed her perfume. He could feel the child moving inside her belly. And all he could feel was the instinct to protect his family. Family. Sherlock had become part of that and now he was missing, locked away for a crime committed out of love.

"_Sentiment is a defect found on the losing side... remember John?"_ John could have cried in the remembrance of this. Sherlock had been right after all. His wish to protect John, Mary and the child had clouded his judgement. None of them had seen what was right in front of them. Magnussen's hollow eyes when staring at people, John should have recognised it. Sherlock sometimes had the same when mentally running through his mind-palace in search of evidence. But then: Sherlock had never been shark-like, never cold and never a business man selling the lives of others to the highest bidder. Sherlock was fire, energy, a flame consuming everything, sometimes the genius himself resulting in one of his terrible lows.

"_I am a high functioning sociopath... Do your research Anderson."_ John had to smile. What a farce, what a bad attempt. Sherlock sometimes had sociopathic tendencies but not because he did not feel emotions himself but because he was bad in handling them. He rather refused having any than to deal with the pain and the humiliation they might cause. His laughter, his caring and most of all his willingness to sacrifice himself for the work, for his friends spoke a different language. Sherlock was bad in dealing with emotions and therefore for him it was not easy to understand human behaviour, the reactions of people around him. And he had a terrible tendency to speak the truth, mostly without realising how much that might hurt others. Apart from lies told to get what he wanted or to investigate Sherlock was a force of nature when it came to rub salt into open wounds in telling the truth.

"_I am a high functioning sociopath."_ That was the only lie John had ever heard Sherlock tell more than once. And the worst lie ever. But it was close enough to the truth for Sherlock to convince himself that feelings actually did not exist, close enough to give him the strength to shoot a man out of cold blood. Without even flinching – that was the most shocking thing John had ever witnessed. John the soldier...

"_Seen lot's of violent deaths?... Wanna see some more?"_ It was a single teardrop John allowed himself, face still buried in Mary's jumper. No. No more. Not yours, Sherlock. Not again.

"_Stand back, John."_ Too shocked to move, too desperate to speak, John had silently witnessed the red dots dancing on Sherlock's face, red dots of death. One shoot to end them all – Sherlock's death would have torn them all apart. No matter how hard John had tried to forgive Mary, had Sherlock died that moment he would not have been able to heal the wounds torn into his own soul. Not to speak of Mary's. Or Mycroft's.

"_Don't shoot Sherlock Holmes."_ Mycroft like so often had saved his little brother, at least his body. John had only once looked into Sherlock's eyes after the shooting and all he had seen was surrender. The hollowness had found its counterpart in Mycroft's eyes. No iceman here, but Mycroft had let special ops take away his brother. John had bodily felt how much Mycroft longed to run after him, but there was one last task to do beforehand: Telling the parents her younger son had not only ruined Christmas but tried to sell state secrets and killed a man. It was a task John had taken over since Mycroft had not even been able to walk properly. And then Mycroft had stood outside in the garden like a statue, only now and then blinking. And in one funny moment it had reminded John of the Weeping Angels even Mary thought terrifying when watching Doctor Who, Mary who found all the other villains rather ridiculous – no wonder about that.

"_Don't shoot Sherlock Holmes."_ At midnight John had gone out and put a coat over Mycroft's shoulder. The man was clearly lost somewhere in his sort of mind palace. But that did not mean he had to freeze to death. It had taken the combined forces of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes to finally get him inside, after that he had only cold remarks for everyone who tried to speak to him. He was working on his computer (yes exactly that one) and answered every question with: "Can't you see I am busy?" Or: "Queen and country do not wait for Christmas to pass." Sometimes only a: "Busy." Or: "Shhhh." In the morning he had been gone. John doubted the elder brother had slept at all.

"John? Hey.. are you listening." John had not even recognised Mary was talking with him.

"Sorry, what?" He looked up to see the elder Holmes in the door. "Sorry, John. We need to get some fresh air and thought maybe you could need some as well?"

Actually yes, he did. The room was far too small a space to stay in for long. And maybe it was better he accompanied them, they were older people and a shock like last evening... better to have a doctor around. That was why they had stayed in the first place. "Yes, thank you... Mary?"

"No, no... you go. Actually my feed could need some rest after all this standing around here." She smiled fondly at him and kissed him on the nose. One of her bad habits. "I will try to read a bit, ok?"

And that is how it came that when Mycroft came back home the only person he found in the house was Mary. And that is how a plan was forged out of nothing, a plan how to safe Sherlock Holmes.

**To be continued**


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry it took me a bit longer to write the next chapter. I hope I did not miss any mistakes while proofreading. **

**Sadly there is no well known character in this chapter, or is there? **

**More will come in the next days, but I am not sure how many chapters I will publish in the end. At the moment I know who did what and when. And there are some scenes spinning in my head I like very much. **

**Hope you do so as well. Your likes and reviews were very inspiring and my imagination is now running wild. Keep up: Read and review!**

**Love, Esta**

**Chapter 6: Be careful what you wish for**

_Day two after the shooting_

Herbert Willcox was one of these guys who never wanted to become an adult. And so while already 32 he still clothed like a 16-year-old teenager, mostly in dirt and grease covered baggy trousers and t-shirts with stupid prints. Today his slogan was: "Fuck me, I'm a virgin." None the less his face seemed to be that of a man in his mid- or end forties. That is what constant lack of sleep, junk food, too much cheap alcohol and an addiction to synthetic drugs do to you.

This morning he even looked worse thanks to the fact that the previous evening he had completely blacked himself out on some new creative pill his friend – let's call him Jack – had sent by. Just to test, as he had said, even though both of them knew that Jack only intended to get Herbert hooked up on another drug mixture. Hey, it was not Herbert's fault that all these social workers and clinic experts never got it right, he was no real addict, all right, just into it now and then… more now than then, to be a bit more precise. But shit, fuck off these idiots.

Last evening's stuff must have been the real runner, though. He felt like shit. Adding that he had found himself bound to his chair this morning, the cold metal of a gun pressed against the back of his head, it was no wonder he now even looked older than fifty. Herbert had no idea how it had come to this but he had the vague feeling the drugs had a part in it.

"The instructions are simple. Look at the sheet of paper directly in front of you. As you can see there are numbers on it. The left ones are bank account numbers, the right ones sums. Dollar sums, to be exact", a frighteningly calm woman's voice spoke behind his back.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Just quite a simple task for you. I want you to transfer the money from all of these accounts to the one mentioned on the bottom of the page. And I want you to hide your traces. Hide them very well, if you like to be alive a bit longer…" The woman never changed her tune or her voice, never raised it even though she made a terrible threat.

You have to understand, that Herbert was kind of a math and computer genius and if he had not found a liking to alcohol and drugs in his early teens, he would most likely become successful – as a computer specialist or a hacker and criminal, whatever he chose. But since he liked smoking weed and drinking beer with some stupid excuses of human beings far more than the lonely hours in front of his impressive computer equipment, it had never come to that.

Sometimes out of boredom he had hacked into some computer system, once into Scotland Yard and after that even into MI5, which had frightened him so much he had stopped hacking before he could discover anything important. Transferring money was an easy game for him. Or how do you think was he able to pay for his computers, a flat in the centre of London (yes it was a sticky basement flat, but he liked it) and an unspoken amount of drugs? His "friends" liked him for his generosity. But something had always lacked in his life, something big. Something like the thing that was right in front of him now. The big deal!

"What are these bank accounts?" He was suspicious.

"It doesn't matter."

"Indeed it does, because I have to know if there might be any additional security…"

"CIA bank accounts used for field operations. Most likely not much used in recent years… But you better cover your traces. They normally don't like it when someone messes with their things. Terrorism and the like, you know." He could hear the women chuckle lightly and that was far more terrifying than her calm and monotone voice.

Shit. He had always wanted something like this, something exiting and dangerous but had never dared to do so. And now he was forced at gunpoint and he could not help himself to be exited as he indeed locked himself into his computer.

But shortly later he stopped. "What will you do to me?"

"You transfer the sum and I leave, you don't I shoot you."

"How can I trust you?"

"You can't but I don't think you have a choice," and with that the woman pressed the gun harder against his head.

"Alright… alright…"

Be careful what you wish for, his gran had always said. If you want some excitement go skiing, she had said. Wanting more from life, than life could give you, is a dangerous game to play, gran had said. And now Herbert feared she might have been right all along.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It took Herbert Willcox exactly 32 minutes to transfer the money to a bank account on the Cayman Islands, using various accounts in Belgium, Cuba, Switzerland even China to hide his traces.

It took the CIA computer specialists two days to even detect the breach and two more to find the bank account the money had vanished to. But as they did the game had already moved on and the money used for the next step of the plot. The person behind all this was not found. Only a druggie, dead from an overdose and strangely enough tied to his desk chair could be made out as the source of the attack. Somebody must have used his computer, the man referred to as Herbs (guess where that came from) was known only as a minor hacker and no one suspected him to be a true computer genius. Clearly some mastermind must have got wind of his technical equipment and used it for his purposes, a mastermind like the one that a short time later appeared on television screens all over Britain.

"Did you miss me?"

But was he even real?

**To be continued**


	7. Chapter 7

_I really had a lot to do the last weeks and so I did not find much time to write. Sorry this chapter took me so long, I try not to delay the next chapter that much. A big "Thank you" to everyone who left such nice reviews, followed and favourite this story so far. You made me not to forget writing. To all those who fear I might turn Mary into a murdering bitch: Did I ever said she actually murdered our little computer expert? Was it even her in that room? ;-) I try to stay in character, promise! And I won't make it too hard on John... yet._

_I am not completely happy with this chapter though, I don't think I gave it the depth it deserves. The feelings would not come forward as much as I hoped they would while writing. The idea was long in my head but turning that idea into a certain feeling proved a bit hard this times. Hope you enjoy none the less. And I would love to know what you think._

**Chapter 7: Alone is what I have**

_Day two after the shooting again_

Darkness was creeping in, thick night blue ink seeping through every hole in the wall. Even the air had a slight metallic taste. No, not right. Sherlock slowly licked his lower lip, he had bitten it while thinking too hard. Night was falling and so was he.

_Alone is what I have..._

Sherlock held his own hands to stop them from shaking. The loneliness in his cell was gnawing at his nerves. Boredom came first, cravings followed. He could have easily picked the lock and be gone in no time, every prison had its flaws and loopholes.

But he could no longer motivate himself to do anything at all. And so now he was down on the floor, his aching back on the cold, rough and hard surface – exactly what he needed to focus. He had not moved in hours, switching from wandering his mind palace to watching the light change. The window was high above and far too small but Sherlock could see the bright winter sun fading with every minute, turning into soft yellow and warm orange before losing its colour. It was a dangerous hour, the time the last sunlight had faded and moon has not taken residence on the sky yet. The blue hour – in every sense of the word. Blue for the colour, blue for his mood. And now the day was slowly turning to pitch black night. Not long and the light bulb in his cell would be switched on and he would be forced to cover his tired eyes with his arm.

His head burned, migraines did not often hit him but when they came, they came with full force making his eyeballs explode and turning his brain into mash until he could no longer form a coherent thought. He tried another retreat to his mind palace and flinched. Every step in it now felt like walking barefoot on glass shards. They cut his feet and were pushed into the surface of his mind while he was wandering around. Sherlock's breathing became heavy. He inhaled, panicked and failed to overrule his own dread.

There were three rooms in his mind palace that had been his last resort for such a long time but now two of them had crumbled to dust.

The first was room number 6. He had been that age when his parents had brought home a tiny little puppy: Redbeard his fierce pirate captain who had died so out of grace in a car accident. Mycroft would laugh had he ever known how many memories Sherlock had kept of the red haired dog while deleting any other unnecessary information. The room had fallen apart in pain and blood. That was what being shot does to you, you have to delete certain things connected with the experience. Sherlock himself had destroyed that room when he sought it out as a last retreat in his pain. Good bye, Redbeared. The dog was now running wild in the corridors only appearing now and then when he liked to but never when Sherlock called in panic. Gone. Everything was gone.

_Alone is what I have..._

The second room had three shiny numbers and one letter: 221B. The second room was home. The second room was John. But now every time he opened that door Mary in her wedding dress blocked his way. And so he was shot again. Again and again. Every time. Now even home was lost to him.

_Alone is what I have..._

There was one door left, a door made of dark wood like all doors in his childhood home. There was no number, no name on this one. But an umbrella leaned at the wall next to it. Sherlock had bought it years ago as a birthday present. Partly out of spite, Mycroft never went out in the rain. Partly as a real gift, because at that time Sherlock sometimes had hoped Mycroft would actually come visiting him in the hellhole of a flat he had called home during his worst days.

There was one door left but never opened without permission. There were rules here, rules Sherlock had to obey even though he had built the mind palace himself. Mycroft meant rules. Mycroft meant order. Mycroft meant peace at last.

He knocked at his brother's door and pushed it open before the older Holmes could even answer.

"Can I stay here, Myc?" a little, curly haired boy asked starring wide eyed at his brother. He held a teddy bear in his arms. Not an ordinary one, but one with stitches and patches from an operation Sherlock had recently done to analyse the inside of his little friend.

Mycroft did not even look up from his book. He sat on his bed and a single light illuminated his face, concentration and focus but no caring for his little brother was all Sherlock could deduce.

"Can I come in, please?" The little boy started nagging and tiptoed on his feed, the floor was cold and he was barefoot, had just crawled out of his bed.

"Sherlock, what is it?" Mycroft asked irritated while lowering his book.

A single tear was in his little brothers eyes, he gnawed at his lips. "I had a bad dream," the five year old said. "A veeery bad dream." Now his lower lip quivered and tears threaded to spill over. "I shot someone, Myc. Can I come in?"

"Dreams are only illusions," the older one said his voice steady as always. But none the less he put the book on the nightstand and invitingly lifted his bedcover. The little boy closed the door softly and sprinted toward his brother's bed before Mycroft would rethink his decision. Sherlock snuggled closer even though Mycroft let out an annoyed "Huff".

"Can you read to me, Myc?"

"You would not understand, brother mine. You are too stupid. It's chemistry."

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock muttered already falling asleep again.

And so the brother started to read, a low voice like a lullaby flowing around Sherlock's mind. "Sleep, brother mine." Mycroft whispered and softly kissed the fluffy curls, touching Sherlock's cheek once. "Sleep."

Xxxxxxxxxx

And even years later the memory of a brother's soft voice lulled a consulting murderer into a restless sleep.


End file.
